The Meek Shall Inherit
by c h ee r w ii n e
Summary: All Seymour Krelborn wanted was a life - a decent one. Except when he finally gets one, he doesn't realize it has to be fed. A lot. ::Little Shop, the full story. NEW CHAPTER :
1. Introduction

Author's Note: _Hello. (: This is my first time writing an LSoH fanfic, but I'm very into it. I would greatly appreciate R&Rs to keep me going! I must alert you to the fact that I'm basing this mostly off of the stage musical, not the movie, and I'm making the characters as I imagine them to be. So don't expect much Ellen Greene or Rick Moranis likeness in here. Oh, and yes, I know in the stage musical it is Sept.21__st__, but seeing as my birthday is Sept.23__rd__, I went with the movie's account. Thanks!_

**An Introduction.**

All Seymour Krelborn wanted was a life – a decent one. One that didn't include sleeping in a bed that your feet stick off of while your stomach grumbles because it hasn't been filled since last Sunday and you stay awake not only from that but from your asthma going crazy from all the dirt and must. One that didn't include cleaning 'til your hands are prunes and trying to sell flowers that are far past their prime for a money-lusting man that could care less if you were ever born. One that didn't include living like a recluse; never having the mirth of friendship or the gentle love of a family or even the simple pleasures of holidays. A life worth living - that's all he'd ever wanted for the twenty-two years he had been breathing. The life he was given was hardly enough to say he was 'alive', for Seymour was an underdog of society, even for Skid Row's standards. That, you see, is a very lowly existence indeed.

It just so happened that day, September 23rd to be precise, that Seymour Krelborn would unknowingly be given a life. What he also didn't know was that this life was out to do him in, I suppose, as most lives do. And it had to be fed. A lot.

---

He had been walking through the wholesale flower district that day, the only place he went out to once in awhile, other than Schmendrick's. There sky was clear and the warm sunlight made the autumn day pleasant, which he was glad for. The sun glistened off his dishwater-brown mess of choppy hair, which he had obviously cut himself, and the crisp wind snuck its way into the tear in his kaki slacks. At least his dingy, white button-up and frumpy sweater vest, striped in the ugliest of shades, kept the heat close to his torso. Behind his thick, black glasses, Seymour's dimly teal eyes took in the bright scenery of sidewalk vendors and rows of greenery. He only wished that his shop could have such thriving horticulture.

One vendor caught his attention in particular. With a loping stride, his old Chucks carried him across the potholed street to a storefront the color of sun-ripened tomatoes. An old Chinese man, complete with a thin ponytail on his chin, squinted up at him and smiled a toothless grin,

"You seek strange plant. Come here for hobby."

Seymour hadn't noticed him until then, and turned around with suspicion and wide eyes. He quickly gained excitement in his meek voice,

"Um, yes, yes I do. A-and yes I am. Do you have any?"

The man gestured with a bony digit to a row of leaflings. They seemed as ordinary as any plants he'd seen all day.

Seymour smirked halfheartedly.

"Heh. Thanks anyway," he said, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked to the curb. It was then, while he waited for cars to pass, that Seymour Krelborn's life was preparing to take an unexpected twist.


	2. Total Eclipse of the Sun

**Chapter One. **

He was rocking back and forth on his feet, when he clumsily fell a bit forward, fumbling to pull his hands from his pockets and grab onto the pole of a street sign. Seymour wasn't known for his grace. _Nobody saw that,_ he thought and bit his bottom lip. He glanced around for a moment before peering down at his toes, supposedly to inspect his footing. But what he found was stranger than two left feet as he squinted through his shadow. Had he gotten larger? He began to ponder. _Maybe a cloud moved in,_ he reasoned, and squinted back up at the sky. No, no cloud. But suddenly, where the sun had been, a great shadow was now there instead. Seymour's mouth went slack and a bitter chill nipped his skin. For a moment, he could've sworn the wind had a humming sound, like something from another world. There was no time for speculation, though, because the sun came back as quickly as it had gone, and warmth and light were restored.

Seymour remained confounded for many more moments, gawking at the sky like a goose in the rain. When his thoughts caught up with him, he quickly turned and walked back to the Chinese man.

"Did you see that?!" he asked in bewilderment, throwing up an arm at the sky.

The man simply smiled behind his beady eyes and nodded in a slow and knowing fashion. Knowing there was no conversation to be had there, Seymour breathed an 'a-huh' and turned on his heel. Just then, something caught his eye.

Seymour walked over to a row of zinnias, only to notice an unusual little bud stuck in amongst them. He leaned over, pushing his glasses up, and peered down his nose. A bud it certainly was, and a young one at that. Small, serrated leaves and tendrils surrounded the greenish-yellow head, which certainly looked too thick to be a flower. In fact, it seemed to have a smile. _Cute_, he thought.

Seymour turned his head towards the Chinese man and, with a questioning expression, pointed down at the plant.

"Was this here earlier?" he asked with a raised voice.

The sun was glaring off of his glasses and he squinted to see the man's reaction. He simply gave another nod of knowing. _Thanks for the help,_ Seymour thought sarcastically, then straightened and picked up the bud and it's tiny pot. It was barely larger than his palm. He carried it over to the unsocial man and before he even had to ask, the man said,

"Dolla' n_i_nety-five."

"Great," said Seymour, rummaging in his pocket for a wad of change. Plant in hand; he used his pinky to push around the coins in his open palm. He wasn't the fastest counter. With a quick smile and thanks, he handed the money to the man and walked off.

Seymour paid no attention to the other vendors as he headed back to his home. He was busy scrutinizing his purchase, running the waxy leaves between his fingers, and stumbling along the cracked sidewalks all the way back. The more blocks he walked, the quicker he walked and the more he stumbled. His face lit up and a smile grew. By the last block, he was bursting with excitement.

In his hands he held a new hope.

---

The bell jingled above the door of _Mushnik's Skid Row Florist. _Seymour remained preoccupied by his plant, letting the door shut behind him and making his way down to his basement dwelling. He turned on a single, dim bulb and sat down on his bed. It creaked heavily. He didn't seem to notice as he held up the tiny pod one last time before setting it on a desk. Its smile appeared to have shifted to a frown.

Seymour put his hands on his knees and leaned forward.

"What are ya, little plant? I'm sorry, but I'm not shuah what ya need," he said apologetically before standing, stretching, and began pulling dusty horticultural books off an old shelf. He made a pile on his bed and began sifting through them. A loud grumble came from his gut.

"I'm, um, gonna head over to Schmendrick's for some dinna'," he said to the leafling while grabbing a few books to take, "I'll see ya lata'."

-

The night had long since fallen by the time Seymour returned to his room. He tossed the books on the desk beside the bud.

"Nothin'," he sighed, and moved the rest of the stack off of his bed. He then proceeded to pull off his sweater vest, running into the desk and the kitchen table in the process, and blindly unbuttoning his shirt. For a young man he was average; built somewhat fluffily, with hardly any muscle definition save for his arms and legs, both of which were simply from repetitive motion – walking up and down stairs, pulling pots from the shelves and such.

Successfully fumbling off his outer layer, he then fumbled again to replace it with a flannel pair of pajamas. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he grabbed a water can and some plant food and gave them both to the tiny bud. It remained 'frowning'.

With a yawn he flopped onto his unsubstantial bed.

"Sorry fella', but that'll have to hold you off until I can figure out what you _really_ need."

Seymour then removed his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and turned off the light. The glow from the streets outside fell across him from a small window. The springs beneath him creaked as he rolled over and drew up the quilted blankets. He didn't know it yet, but he was going to find out what that plant _really_ needed _really_ soon. And it wasn't plant food.

"Goodnight," he said faintly, and drifted off into a thoughtful slumber.


	3. The New Day

Author's Note: _Finally, an update! (: I'm starting to integrate song lyrics here and there, but I still want to keep it on the realistic side. _

**Chapter Two. **

It was a bright mid-morning in Skid Row, the shadows slowly recessing as the Sun peeked over the sign-crowned rooftops. And even then, from its highest perch, the omniscient eye of the Sun would never fall upon the pitiable creature known as Seymour Krelborn. For him, it was just another day to sweep the sidewalk in front of the flower shop, just another day to wash the windows, and just another day to go completely unnoticed by the world.

As he swept, he thought, _Poor_. _All my life I've always been poor. I keep asking God what I'm for, and he tells me, "Gee, I'm not sure – sweep that floor, kid!" _

And he swept and swept and swept until he couldn't sweep any more. His thoughts were racing. Setting the broom aside, he picked up a washrag out of a bucket beside him and began scrubbing the dirt-encrusted window. Soon, the glass beneath the peeling words _Mushnik's Skid Row Florist _gleamed and Seymour stood, entranced in his reflection.

He saw himself – a slob of a pathetic, futureless, young man – lost in the swarm of busy people passing him, all stuck in this slum, but with obviously more to do with their lives than him. The world was a passerby moving around a sleeping bum. And he was the bum. Nobody would ever stop to pick him up and brush him off. Nobody would ever offer him a ticket out of there. Nobody would even spit on him and tell him to get a life. Well, actually, that last one _had _happened before.

Seymour kept scrubbing the window while his mind kept pondering the metaphor between him and a bum until –

"Seymour!" a woman's voice squeaked cheerfully.

He dropped his washrag into the bucket with a start, sending suds and dirty water splashing. A soapy hand pushed his glasses back on his nose. Through the smears and bubbles he made out the visage of a young woman, pale and waif with loose curls of white gold trailing past her shoulders. Her big, brown eyes were soft and pleading.

"What ya doin'?" she asked sweetly.

"Oh, h-hi Audrey. I was just, y'know, cleanin' the storefront. As usual," Seymour stuttered, tilting his head at an awkward angle to see through the soapy smears.

"Well, I was just headin' in to work," she replied.

There was a small silence between them. Little did either know, moments before, both of them had been thinking of the same thing – getting out of there.

Audrey took a handkerchief from her purse and gently wiped his glasses so that he could see her dimpled, blithe smile. And her black eye.

"Is that new eye makeup?" he asked innocently, offering a genuine smile.

Her eyes dropped shyly and a sadness fell over her face. She attempted a slight chuckle and quickly went into the shop before he had the chance to see, or say, anything else.

Slightly dazed, Seymour's eyes lingered on the spot where Audrey had just been. His mouth closed gently and his thoughts caught back up to him. He crumpled up his mental note and threw it in his mental trashcan. His metaphor – scrapped.

Today was a new day. Today he didn't go unnoticed. Today someone had picked up the bum and brushed him off. _And_, he thought, _that was a lot better than getting spit on. _


End file.
